


Skirting the Issue

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Artistic License - Weedkiller, Belts, Bondage, Complicated Relationships, Desk Sex, Dom/sub, Hopeful Ending, Impact Play, M/M, Object Insertion, Over the Knee, Porn With Plot, Questionable Use of Institute Property, Season 2, Skirts, Spanking, Tape Recording
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: All Tim wanted was to grab his keys and go home. He’s earned a couple days of peace from his terrible job and increasingly paranoid boss.But it’s never that simple, is it? Not when Jon’s trousers are torn to shreds, and a plant monster is stalking the Instituter’s corridors. But maybe for once, complicated is exactly what they both need.They couldn’t skirt the issue forever, after all.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 144





	Skirting the Issue

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started for 100 words of skirts + spanking. Then it acquired a plant monster, among other things, and went a bit past anything close to 100 words.

“Get back!”

Tim froze, hand still on the door to the Archives, taking in the sight of Jon shambling towards him, brandishing a knife. With his hair stuck up at wild angles and his clothes torn and gaping in spots, he looked more scarecrow than man.

As Tim shut the door behind him, he realized he wasn’t even surprised. When all you had was your own self-absorbed paranoia, everyone was a crow. It felt almost inevitable, that Jon would lose it. At least he was the only one here, if Jon was going to go on a rampage.

The door stuck, refusing to budge when he gave it another sharp tug. Tim glanced back, frowning at what looked like a dark, greenish rope twisting into the small gap. Before he could get a closer look, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Tim scrambled out of the way just in time to avoid Jon’s wild slashing. Most of his strokes went wide, but one landed, nicking it. The thing—rope, vine, tendril, whatever—shuddered and twitched, before slithering back behind the door.

When Jon failed to close it, Tim lurched back towards him, leaning heavily on the door until it snapped shut with a satisfying click. One he followed up with the even more satisfying thunk of the lock. Hopefully enough to keep the monster out, while he dealt with the paranoid idiot he’d locked himself in with.

“Get back,” Jon said, earlier warning turned to wariness as be brandished the knife at Tim.

Tim looked him over again. The state of his hair—never exactly stylishly cut—seemed to be enhanced by a good deal of some sort of sticky substance, maybe from whatever it was on the other side of the door. His clothes were in an even worse state than Tim had first realized, one trouser leg so badly damaged it hung in tatters around his ankle, and gashes in the other leg and his shirt. Though his waistcoat was surprisingly intact. Pity, the monster would’ve been doing him a service there.

Though scratches littered his exposed skin, making a rather horrific pattern amidst the worm scars, Jon didn’t seem to be particularly hurt. And unfortunately, all too willing to direct the wild terror in his eyes at Tim.

“What the hell was that?” Tim said.

Because if he hadn’t completely lost it, for once there really was something lurking in the Archives trying to kill Jon. An actual monster, and damn, did Tim wish he hadn’t forgotten his keys. He’d had enough monsters for a lifetime.

The thought was followed by a surge of guilt. However bad Jon had gotten, he didn’t deserve to be torn to shreds. At least not physically.

“Why are you here?” Jon’s eyes narrowed, hand tightening around the knife.

The worst part was, it hurt. That even here, even now, Jon couldn’t thank him, couldn’t trust he wasn’t colluding with some vicious tentacle monster. And he didn’t know why he still cared so damn much.

But he did know what he felt right now.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He took an aborted step towards Jon, halting as Jon flailed the knife in his general direction. While he was fairly confident Jon wouldn’t manage serious damage, that didn’t mean getting sliced up wouldn’t hurt. And his night was bad enough as it was. So he sighed, and let his arms dangle at his sides. Hopefully in a way that even Jon couldn’t perceive as a threat.

“I forgot my keys, you idiot. I’m not sending a monster after you, and even if I were, why would I show up to get attacked?” Tim gave Jon a look over again, then met his eyes. “It seemed like it was doing just fine without me.”

“I had it under control.” Jon tugged pathetically at a dangling length of fabric, as if he could somehow use that to mend the tatters of his stupid, stubborn pride.

“Like hell you did.” Tim sucked in a breath, shutting his eyes briefly. Trying to calm the furious pounding of his heart, and force his hands to unclench. If they were going to get out of here alive, they’d have to find a way to work together. “Look, I don’t care what you think. Are you able to keep it together long enough for us to get to the entrance?”

“Keep it together? I saved you, in case you’ve forgotten. Or maybe—” He cut himself off, showing surprising restraint for once. But the suspicion came through loud and clear.

Lucky for Jon, Tim was practical enough to ignore it. For now. Plenty of time to shout at Jon later, if they weren’t torn to bits. Or just another thing to add to his growing list, and hope it was enough for Elias to actually do something.

“Maybe nothing. Ready to make a run for it?” Though as Tim looked over Jon again, he found himself doubting Jon’s ability to run. “If you can.” He raised his eyebrows at Jon, and was rewarded with a glare.

“It has sharp thorns. I’d like to see you do better.”

“I still have all my clothes on.” Tim snorted. “Although if I were you, I’d probably do away with them entirely.”

Jon flushed, crossing his arms over his chest, as if that would cover anything. It was almost cute, how indignant he was at the implication.

“What? You can’t seriously be asking me to strip.” When his question was met with silence from Tim, he only seemed to puff up further, shoulders raised slightly and hands gripped tight around his ribs. “Now? It’s highly inappropriate—”

“Oh, shut up.” God, he’d forgotten how pompous Jon could be, all these weeks of avoiding conversation. “I meant you’re going to trip if you run around like that. If it’s dead or naked, I know which I’d pick.”

When Jon failed to respond, simply wrapping his arms tighter around his torso, Tim sighed and went over to Sasha’s desk. He pulled open the bottom drawer and rifled through the pile of neatly folded clothes. Blouse, socks, there it was. He held up his prize for Jon, who regarded it with far more horror than a perfectly nice skirt deserved.

“You don’t want to run around naked, right?” He gave the skirt a little shake, trying not to laugh when Jon took at half-step back. “Here you go.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t have any spare trousers?”

“Nope. And neither does Martin. I’m guessing you don’t either?” Not a guarantee, given how little Jon seemed to think when he’d gotten himself all wound up about some crisis. But from the way Jon’s lips tightened mulishly, Tim was pretty sure he’d guessed right.

“I spilled tea on my trousers earlier this week. I hadn’t gotten the chance to bring a new spare.”

“So this is your best option. Or running around naked, I don’t think that’s a bad one either. Less for whatever that thing is to latch onto.” He tossed the skirt to Jon, who managed to catch it. Better reflexes than he would’ve expected. “Up to you.”

Jon turned the skirt over in his hands, as if it would suddenly turn into trousers, or whatever else Jon might deem sufficiently stodgy adornment for his gangling legs.

"Might even be better," Tim couldn't help but add. "A lot less restrictive than trousers. Could help you loosen up."

Jon rolled his eyes at the forced pun, but seemed to actually be considering Tim's point. And hey, it wasn't untrue, was it? Skirts had their downsides, but this one was only knee length on Sasha and would be shorter on Jon. And Sasha had always favored comfort, so the soft, flowing cotton shouldn't pose any problem.

"Fine. Just—" He met Tim's eyes, lips pressed together as he worked the fabric of the skirt absently between his fingers. Then he sighed. "Keep watch."

"Don't worry, boss. I won't peek." Despite how little he liked Jon these days, he still found his lips twitching up into a smile as he turned towards the door. Worrying over his modesty, in the state he was in, was so very…Jon.

He didn't have to wait long for the finger tap on his shoulder. He turned around slowly, unable to contain his widening smile as he looked over Jon's new attire.

"Looking good."

"Shut up," Jon said tiredly.

And okay, in fairness the overall outfit didn't quite work. The tie and stodgy waistcoat combined with the more casual skirt did have a bit of a business on top, party on the bottom look that didn’t quite hit either. And that was before he took into account the small tears and mysterious green stains. But the skirt wasn’t to blame, and under better circumstances, Jon might really be able to pull it off. Surprisingly shapely legs, now that Tim got a good look at them.

Once, he might've told Jon as much. Enjoyed the way he blushed, and rearranged the skirt. Glaring at the offending article of clothing as the irritation drained away, and he tried to figure out what Tim meant. Trying to see Tim's perspective, even if he didn't quite get it himself.

Weird to think it wasn't that long ago, that he might’ve said that. Might’ve teased Jon just to see him reluctantly smile. But the way Jon kept a careful distance, the knife firmly clutched in his hand, was reminder enough of how things had changed. Tim swallowed back a bitter surge of anger, and tried to focus on the plan. Getting out. Not Jon, and not what might've been, if he hadn't gone and ruined everything.

“Okay, so what do you know about that thing? Where did it come from?”

Jon took too long to answer, turning the knife over in his hands. Likely weighing the chance of Tim being involved in whatever murderous conspiracy he was imagining right now against the far more concrete threat of their B-Movie monster assailant. Tim’s hands curled with the urge to hit Jon, as his eyes darted between Tim and the door. Luckily for both of them, Jon decided not to push his luck.

“I think it’s a bit like Jane Prentiss. I didn’t get a good look, but it seemed like it was human, once.”

“Fuck.” Tim swallowed back bile, and his hand found a desk to steady himself. “There’s more than one?”

Jon shook his head. “It’s not like the worms. Seems to be some sort of plant thing, vines coming out of it.”

“Explains the thorns,” Tim said, with another glance at the remnants of Jon’s trousers, now in a pathetic pile on the floor. “How fast is it?” With someone else, he might’ve assumed fast, given Jon’s state. But he wasn’t sure Jon had the sense to run away from the monster, rather than just stand there and watch. Then again, he was hardly one to talk, was he?

“Fast. I—” His eyes drifted towards the door, and he swallowed. “I’ll admit, when I first saw it, I froze.” Tim didn’t bother to suppress his snort of vindication, earning him an irritated glare from Jon. “Oh, like you wouldn’t be a bit shocked to see that thing shambling out of Artefact Storage.”

“Artefact Storage?” He stood up a bit straighter, giving the door a wary glance of his own. Prentiss had been human enough to plan. She’d clearly wanted something, though he sure as hell didn’t know what and increasingly didn’t care. Lucky for them, she hadn’t gotten it. But if this thing did… “You think it’s going back there?”

“Might be.” His grip tightened on the knife. “When it saw me, I ran down here to try and, well. Get something to help.”

“That? Seriously?”

“Oh, do you have a better plan? I’ll admit, it’s not the most effective against that thing, but it’s not like we have a lot of weapons on hand. At least not ones I’d want to touch. And we’re running pretty low on the extinguishers. If that would even work.” Despite his words, Jon didn’t put down the knife. Instead, his eyes drifted from the blade to Tim, in a way that made it all too clear the plant monster wasn’t the only threat on his mind.

 _I was hurt too,_ Tim wanted to say. _I helped you._ Pathetic, to still want Jon to admit he was wrong. To give a shit at all about what he thought. All that mattered was whether Jon could keep it together long enough to deal with this thing.

He frowned, gaze falling on a lone extinguisher in its case on the wall. Was it worth the risk? Or was there maybe something else, some unconventional weapon that just might take this thing out, before it got its hands—vines—on whatever it was after?

“It’s definitely a plant, or part plant, right?” he said slowly.

“Yes. I’m not sure what effect the CO2 would have on something like that. I assume it might be negative, but given plants breathe CO2, I wasn’t sure if it would be rapid enough, and given how fast it is…”

“I’m not sure the extinguishers are our best option,” Tim said, not even bothering to question the logic. Wasn’t like these things operated on real world science anyway. Still... “Think we can get to the ground floor?”

* * *

Getting to the storage room on the east side of the building proved far too simple. No plant monster, no creepy crawlies or ghosts or whatever else this horror show wanted to throw at them next. Nothing but Jon, shooting looks at Tim in a way he clearly thought was subtle, while tugging absentmindedly at the steel blue skirt.

"Why do we even have weed killer? And why do you know where it is?" Jon said as they crept around a corner, and he shone the torch he'd fetched from his office down yet another dark corridor.

Tim bit back his knee-jerk response to Jon's tone, and pushed past him to make for the storage room. His lips twisted into a bitter smile as he heard Jon's not at all stealthy footsteps hurry after him, followed by the flutter of his skirt as he again took the lead. Clearly the prospect of the plant monster at his back was still worse than Tim. Though Tim wasn't sure if he should take that as a true sign Jon trusted him, or just a sign he saw Tim as the lesser threat.

Whatever. Either way he'd take it, if it got them out of here alive.

Jon entered the small storage room first. When Tim shut the door and pressed the light switch, he jumped, whirling around and making the skirt flutter around his legs. As Tim's eyes rose back to his face, he was met with a glare, and Jon furiously smoothing the skirt back down, like a cat licking itself to soothe its ruffled dignity.

"Look, I don't know what weird theory you're crafting right now, but on the off chance the explanation will help, we have weed killer because they're a problem in the courtyard, and new paving stones aren't in the budget. Haven't been for years, from what Kevin said. Apparently, they’re not ‘vital to our mission,’ or whatever it is Elias says when he doesn’t want to pay."

Tim scanned the shelves, trying to ignore the way Jon was clearly doing the same next to him, while nervously fiddling with his skirt. After all, he didn't want to start acting like Jon himself, seeing dangerous paranoia in everything Jon did when he did have good reason to be nervous. Even if that was what Jon deserved.

If what Kevin had told him was true, then his predecessor had stashed away some really potent stuff. Banned in the EU since 2009, and from what Tim had read about it, for good reason. Though Kevin had seemed rather down on the whole thing. Apparently his gran swore by the stuff, and he held fast to her belief that the small chance of exploding trousers was worth some very dead weeds.

Normally, Tim would be inclined to just do a few extra applications with something a bit safer. But given their herbaceous foe seemed to be creeping along a bit faster than your average ground cover, he found himself agreeing with Kevin's gran. Best to take it out with the strong stuff.

"Give me that." He held out a hand to Jon, and sighed when Jon backed away. "The torch, Jon. You can keep your knife."

Jon narrowed his eyes, hand going to where he'd tucked the knife into the waistband of his skirt. But he did hand the torch over, and if the knife made him feel better, he was welcome to it. Tim had more important things to do, stepping back to sweep the beam over a high shelf along the back wall. It illuminated exactly what he was looking for, shoved into a dusty corner.

Unfortunately, another quick survey of the room failed to reveal a step ladder. And the shelf was high enough he knew neither of them could reach it. Probably intentional, given what it was. But not insurmountable.

"Come here," he said, gesturing Jon closer. Though of course Jon backed away yet again, hitting the door and startling himself, one hand fisted tight in his skirt, the other white knuckled around the knife. A knife he’d pulled free to point at Tim.

"Seriously?" Tim said, when Jon failed to put the damn thing away.

"I'm sorry," Jon snapped. His fingers worked the fabric of the skirt, and his eyes fell shut as he sighed, and actually seemed to relax. "I know—" He sucked in a breath, and let it out slowly, looking at Tim again. "I know you're probably not trying to kill me. I'm just a bit on edge."

"Yeah, I've noticed. It's only been, what, a few months?"

Jon's lips thinned, and he tucked the knife back into his waistband, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared at Tim.

"I don't think this is really the time or place to argue about this, is it?"

Tim hated that he had a point.

"Fine. But I do need you to come here. I don't think either of us want to go wandering around looking for a step ladder, so I'm going to need your help to get this down." He pointed up at the dusty container, and Jon followed his gesture with a dubious look.

"Is there a reason it has to be that one?" He stepped closer, and nudged a spray bottle of Growing Success Ultra Path and Patio Weedkiller with his foot. "Why can't we just use this one?"

"Because this weed isn't just going to crack pavement, it's going to crack us if we don't take it down. This up here," he waved a hand at the shelf, "is so potent it's illegal. Which is exactly what we need right now, don't you think?"

"I...yes, I suppose you're right. How do we get it down?" He scanned the room, clearly doing the check for anything to stand on that Tim had already done, shoulders slumping as he came to a similar conclusion about the battered cardboard boxes.

Tim went down on one knee, and cupped his hands. He raised his eyebrows at Jon when he remained where he was, regarding Tim’s hands as if they might bite.

"Oh, just get over here. I don't think it's going to stay out of our way forever, so we don't have time to argue about this. And even if it stays out of our way…" He nodded back towards the door. “Might decide it can just kill us later, once it has what it came for.”

"I don't see why I can't be the one giving you the boost," Jon grumbled, though he did cross the space between them to rest his foot tentatively on Tim's palm.

"Because I'm stronger and you're lighter." He lifted his hand slightly, making Jon flail and grab for his shoulder. "Ready?"

His grip tightened. "Let's just get this over with. And don't drop me."

"Don't worry. I wouldn't want to alert it." Before Jon could find a reason to argue with that, Tim stood, struggling to maintain his balance as Jon fumbled for the edge of the shelf.

He sighed in relief when Jon managed to grab it and hold himself steady. Not that he wasn't still heavy. Lighter than Tim wasn't exactly tiny, and Tim hadn't been working out as much lately. The way people stared at the worm scars...well, he'd get back into it eventually, when he'd come with something less horrifying than the truth. Or maybe just look into buying a weight set.

"Got it?" he asked through clenched teeth, craning his neck to try and see what the hell Jon was doing up there.

He did seem to be trying for it, at least, one arm outstretched while his other hand remained clamped around Tim's shoulder. Though damn, Tim hoped he'd get it soon. With each sway, his skirt brushed Tim's face, tickling in a way that really wasn't mixing well with all the dust Jon was stirring up. He shook his head, trying to knock the skirt away. But the fabric clung to his sweat damp forehead, lifting the edge to offer an entirely unintended and completely unobstructed view.

It was all Tim could do to bite back that he hadn't meant for Jon to go commando, when he'd told him to get rid of the trousers. Though if his pants had also been destroyed, that did explain more of his reluctance to do away with the trousers. Fuck, if it wasn't kind of distracting, even as he shut his eyes and tried to pretend he hadn't seen it. Jon was already paranoid, no need for him to have good reason to think Tim was a creep as well, even if it'd been an accident.

"Got it," Jon said. "Now put me down."

"Whatever you say, boss." Tim sank gratefully to the floor, depositing a rather dustier Jon next to him. Quite happy to see he was now clutching a container of Growing Success DeadFast Sodium Chlorate Weedkiller, exactly what he’d hoped for.

"I really hope that isn't false advertising," Tim said, as he took it from Jon.

Jon relinquished it quite happily, too focused on trying to rid himself of the dust clinging to his face. After giving his equally dusty shirt a rather disgusted look, he pulled his tie free from his waistcoat, dragging the sleek fabric ineffectively over his skin.

On impulse, Tim reached for one the cloths he’d seen earlier, still wrapped in plastic on a lower shelf. He set down the container and pulled the package open, then turned back to Jon.

Jon looked up at him with wide, dust reddened eyes. Before he could come up with another stupid argument, Tim grabbed the back of his head, holding him steady as he ran the cloth over his face, leaving him flushed but far cleaner than before.

"You could've just given it to me, you know."

Tim stared at the dirty cloth in his hand, then tossed it aside with a shrug. Maybe it was a bit weird, that he'd gone for that, touching Jon when could've left him to deal with his own damn mess.

A misplaced remnant of a different time, when Tim might’ve dragged Jon to the pub over his protests. And made him laugh despite himself, and cleaned him up when he managed to slop a drink down his shirt, and well. What happened after that, one particularly memorable time. All best left in the past.

Fuck, he didn’t need this now.

He turned back towards the door, looking for anything to take his attention off maudlin reminiscence. And just his luck, he found it, his heart sinking as a tendril poked under the door, waving around tentatively. Like it was testing the air. Looking for them.

Definitely bigger problems.

“Get behind me. And keep your mouth shut, you really don’t want to breathe this in.”

* * *

"Why do you get to deal with it? I don't need your protection, or whatever this is," Jon whispered furiously, though luckily he’d stopped whining into Tim's air. Clearly enough sense left to realize trying to forcibly wrench a bottle of weedkiller out of Tim's hands wasn't going to end well for either of them.

"You really suck at following directions, boss," Tim replied, his voice low. His hand tightened around the handle of the container as he scanned the room. The damn stuff needed to be mixed with water and put into some sort of sprayer, and he sure as hell didn't have time to do that now.

"Well, I _am_ your boss," Jon muttered, sounding so petulant Tim rolled his eyes.

But at least Jon did seem to be staying back, and he didn't try to stop Tim when he stepped to the side, setting down the container of Growing Success DeadFast whatever, and picking up the spray bottle of Growing Success DeadSlower But Hopefully Still Good Enough.

"What are you doing? I though you said that wasn't going to work?"

"I said the other stuff was better, but it's not exactly prepared yet. You've never done any gardening, have you?"

"You have?" Jon said, making it abundantly clear the answer was 'no'.

"Yeah, my dad's really into it. Used to help him all the time. Still do, when I visit my parents." He'd always loved it, and loved it even more when Danny had come, too. Not that he was much help, poking around in the dirt and getting distracted looking up botanical facts on his phone, and hey Tim, did you know there are secret urban gardens in London?

He hadn't visited as much, the last few years. It was harder to pretend, when he was there. Harder to forget.

But wallowing in it now wasn't going to help. He shoved the memories down, and lifted the spray bottle, aiming it at the thing. He'd have to get closer; not like weedkiller was designed for weaponized use. The traditional targets tended to be little less mobile than the one they were facing now.

"Stay. Back." Tim took another stop towards it, and didn't bother to check if Jon had listened. If he got himself sprayed because he was in the way, he'd have no one to blame but himself. Even if he would probably find a way to make that some sort of mad murder conspiracy, too.

His fingers tightened over the trigger, sweat making them slip slightly. It might be better to dry them off, but the vine was still moving, and worse, other tendrils were joining it under the door. Up close, it was a horrible, sickly looking green. A color that crossed past the vibrancy of well-watered grass, and into the eerie glow of radio-luminescent paint. Erasing any doubt he could've possibly had that this was anything but unnatural.

Another step forward, and the vine leapt.

Tim pulled the trigger, releasing a spray of weedkiller. It went high, the angle wrong as he stumbled back in surprise. The vine missed him, smashing into a cardboard box, but he knew he might not be so lucky next time. He took a step towards it, noticing a second too late the plastic sheeting that had fallen out of the box. His foot came down at the wrong angle, throwing him back into another stack of cardboard boxes with a muffled thud.

What a stupid way to die. Here lies Tim, who slipped on some plastic, and got murdered by a plant. He really hoped Jon lied for him, assuming he managed to survive.

Before he could properly resign himself to his fate, he felt a hand tug the bottle out of grip, and the soft brush of fabric on his skin. Tim pushed himself to his feet, shoving the tumbled boxes aside and scrambling forward just in time to see Jon aiming at the vines, spraying as quickly as he could manage.

A vine lunged, sending Jon stumbling back, his skirt flipping wildly as he struggled not to fall prey to Tim's fate. But he kept his footing, and gave the bottle a firm squeeze in response, making the vine writhe and flinch away.

While Jon advanced towards the door, spraying all the way, Tim went for the container of the more potent stuff. Not ideal for distribution, but it'd hopefully act as a detriment while they collected themselves and planned their next move.

He hurried over to Jon, unscrewing the top and dribbling a line of the chemical along the bottom of the door as Jon continued to spray frantically, stopping when Tim reached the last trailing vine, and taking a step back to allow him to complete his task.

They both stared at the door for a minute. His heart pounded in his ears, and over that, he could hear Jon's breathing coming in shallow gasps. He had to say, whatever Jon's many faults, he hadn’t stayed frozen long. Reckless as hell, but right now Tim couldn't find it in himself to fault that. Not when it had probably just saved his life.

And it wasn't like Tim didn't tend to be a little reckless himself. In retrospect, going in all spray bottles blazing without giving Jon one for backup probably hadn't been his best plan.

"Thanks," he said, and found he really meant it.

Not that he was happy with Jon, not that this fixed everything, just...it was a reminder of why he'd ended up liking Jon in the first place. Under all that pomposity and arrogance and bluster, there was something almost appealing. All the times he could see that despite how much of an ass he could be, Jon did try, and he cared, in his way. That he was smart, and sometimes even funny. Maybe that person was still in there after all.

Jon turned to him slowly, clutching the spray bottle uncomfortably tightly in one hand, while he smoothed down his skirt with the other. Clearly developing a nervous tic there, but Tim had to admit, it was kind of cute. The way he refused to meet Tim’s eyes as he attempted to rearrange it. Until one tug, harder than the rest, pulled at the waistband and dislodged his knife.

He bent over quickly, back to Tim, exposing a rather generous amount of skin before he seemed to catch himself. He quickly crouched, smoothing the back of the skirt rather frantically. When he stood again, he was blushing, looking completely absurd with bright red spray bottle in one hand, and knife poorly held in the other.

"You know, you should probably leave the knife. You're going to end up stabbing yourself."

Jon narrowed his eyes, and clutched the knife tighter. All Tim could do was sigh, and pretend it wasn't a disappointment, to realize not all that much had changed. At least he could make sure Jon wasn't completely stupid about it.

"The skirt has pockets. Sasha refuses to buy them without. At least put it in there, and maybe wrap it in something."

He turned his back to Jon, and knelt to go through the boxes. Even if they were using ready made spray now, there had to be something for the older stuff, or even just whatever the Institute used for pest control. Somewhere, in the masses of rolled up plastic… Why the hell did they have so much of that, anyway? Definitely something to ask Kevin, next time he needed a bit of a break from Jon's unending paranoia.

"You're welcome. I—” Jon sighed. “Whatever you think of me, I don't actually want anything bad to happen to you." There was the rustle of plastic being kicked aside, and the scrape of a shoe against the floor. Followed by the sound of tumbling cardboard boxes, and a soft curse.

Tim tensed, fingers flexing as he stared down at the plastic.

"Yeah, same. I just wish you'd believe it."

He waited for a moment, but all he got was silence. Figured. He didn't know why he'd expected better.

"Let's just get this over with. Tell me if you find something to spray this stuff." Tim frowned, sliding one hand over the plastic. Maybe confronting the thing head on wasn't the best idea. Maybe... "And tell if you see any rope, tape, anything like that. Also, a bucket. I think I might have a plan."

* * *

"That's a terrible plan," Jon said, glaring up at Tim, though he continued obediently dumping plastic sheeting into the larger of the two buckets they'd found. "For one thing, it relies on that thing not noticing an incredibly conspicuous trap. And for another, what if something comes out of the tunnels while the trapdoor is open?"

"Then it can fight the plant monster. Real Godzilla vs Mothra showdown. Who will win, will the Institute survive the fallout? I'm sure not sticking around to see the final act. You're free to watch, of course. Maybe you can take a statement from the survivor, sell the rights to whoever the new Dexter Banks is."

"Hilarious." Jon dropped two spray bottles of the weaker weedkiller on top of the mounds of plastic, and hung the bucket over his arm. "Maybe you can kill it with laughter, make it keel over right into your incredibly obvious pit."

"Now you're talking." Tim slung his own bucket over an arm, and lifted the DeadFast stuff with his other hand. Leaving him without a free hand, relying on Jon and the small hope the plant monster would still be off licking its sap, or whatever the hell it did. God, he hoped he didn’t regret this. At least not more than he already did. "Ready?"

"Yes. But we're not done talking about this." Jon opened the door slowly, sticking his head into the corridor like an idiot who wanted to get it snapped off. Before Tim could tell him to maybe look from inside the room, he'd walked right out.

Well, that proved as well as anything that it probably wasn’t waiting and ready to ambush them. Before Jon could get too far ahead and do something even more reckless, Tim hurried after him, moving as quickly as he could with his arms weighed down.

They made their way to the Archives in silence, though he could tell Jon was on edge. His free hand remained in the pocket the whole way, probably fondling his knife. And not in a way that'd relieve the tension in his hunched shoulders.

But Tim could hardly say he was feeling any better, as they carefully headed down the stairs. After all, the thing could've gone back down here, guessing they'd return. Or maybe it was up in Artefact Storage, and by the time they’d laid the trap, it’d have unlimited power, endless darkness, whatever that sort of thing was after. Even if it had a shit plan, didn’t mean it couldn’t destroy a lot in the process.

And Tim had to admit, Jon wasn’t entirely wrong. His plan wasn’t that great. It relied on the monster getting reckless, and relying on that thing to act predictably…well, it was a gamble at best.

But it’d attacked them twice, and it’d clearly been distracted easily enough by Jon before Tim had arrived. Maybe he was overconfident, but it seemed like they might be lucky. That this thing cared more about turning them into fertilizer than whatever its original goal had been.

They crept slowly into the Archives, setting down their buckets and the container of weedkiller, and each taking one of the spray bottles. Jon gave him a look, nodding at the storage room where until a few months ago Martin had slept, and turned towards his office. His intent was clear, and as much as Tim wanted to instinctively argue, it did make sense. Divide and conquer, so they could confirm as soon as possible that the thing really wasn't here.

It luckily didn't take long to survey the area, and unlike Prentiss, the plant monster really didn't seem to leave bits of itself behind. When they met up again near the trapdoor, Tim nodded, and Jon sighed in relief, leaning heavily against one desk.

"That's something, at least. Now, for your plan—"

"Unless you have a better idea, we're doing it."

Jon's hand was back in his pocket, probably playing with that damn knife again. Was he going to try and threaten Tim, make him go along with whatever Jon wanted? Tim ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself. No, that was insane, and nothing like Jon. He was paranoid, sure, but he'd never been violent. At least not yet.

"Well," Jon said, staring down at his skirt and straightening it pointlessly yet again, "we don't have a key, so I don't even know how your plan could work."

"Yeah, we do. Or rather you do." Jon's head shot up, and Tim rolled his eyes. "We all know you've been sneaking around down there. You're not as subtle as you think."

Tim's eyes went to Jon's non-knife pocket, where he could see his hand tightening around something beneath the thin fabric. Almost certainly the key. Tim held out a hand for it, one that Jon ignored as he knelt next to the trapdoor, and slid it into the lock.

“Happy?”

"I see you're getting the hang of the skirt thing," Tim said, as Jon demurely spread it around his legs, this time careful not to expose too much flesh.

"Shut up," Jon said, turning the key until there was a click. Then he tucked the key into his pocket and stood up, still careful to not bend overmuch, before backing away to lean against the edge of Martin's desk.

"You can't open it yourself?" Tim said, walking towards it, and grabbing for the cleverly concealed handle.

"I prefer to watch." Jon reached behind him to pick up on of the spray bottles, resting it on his thigh while kept a wary eye on the trapdoor. And hey, fair enough. Somehow had to keep an eye out, it wasn't like Tim had a lot of other options. Still—

“I’ll have to make sure to sure to put on a good show.” Tim wiggled his arse in Jon’s direction, and chuckled to himself when Jon sputtered.

The door came open with surprising ease, exposing the stone steps he could almost recall, though his memory was clouded with the haze of terror and an enormous quantity of CO2. He almost wished it went straight down, but he supposed it wasn't practical, if you ever wanted to use your creepy secret underground tunnels. And given Gertrude's body had been down there, it seems like someone had.

"Anything?" Jon asked softly.

Tim looked up to see one of his hands clenched white knuckled around the edge of the desk. He shook his head, but Jon didn't seem to relax at all, instead tightening his grip on the spray bottle, and propelling himself forward.

The sudden sound of tearing fabric split through the silence, followed by Jon's less surprising swearing as he turned back to the desk and began to yank at the skirt.

Tim took a step towards him, but before he could tell Jon to cut it out and unhook it carefully, a louder ripping noise echoed through the room. He watched with wide eyes as Jon stumbled back from the desk, barely catching himself before he landed arse first. But the damage was done nonetheless, the skirt now slipping down on one side to expose the top of one surprisingly shapely cheek, marred only by a vicious, twisted scar.

Jon's hand went for the fabric, tugging it up. Then he turned around to glare at Tim, blushing furiously.

"Stop staring. And don't you _dare_ say anything inappropriate." His hand tightened around the bunched up fabric, the edge now riding high along his left thigh.

Tim blinked at him for a moment, before his mind finally caught up with exactly what Jon was implying, his hands curling into fists.

"I'm not the one who has problems with appropriate workplace behavior, you ass. And don't you start. Sure, I tell stories about my personal life, but that's my life. I don't make unwelcome sexual comments about my fucking boss. Not when I liked you, and not now when I kind of hate you."

He took a step towards Jon, whose eyes had gone wide and startled, though he remained where he was, still clutching at the damn skirt.

“I’ve never brought up that night. Just a bit of fun, and you said you didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t,” Tim continued, as Jon’s mouth worked. It didn’t matter if Jon couldn’t manage a response, because Tim wasn’t done yet. "But I can see how you might struggle with that, since I think that's in the same bit of the employee handbook that tells you not to stalk your assistants. And yeah, I do know about that."

Jon's lips parted, and he made a small noise when Tim took another step towards him. It was enough to get Tim to stop, to keep what he'd been about to say next to himself. That he'd been planning on reporting Jon to Elias. That he'd hoped Jon might be fired. That he deserved it, and that Tim would be happy to see him gone.

"That's not—"

"Don't try to deny it. You've never been a good liar to anyone except yourself."

Before Tim could continue, Jon held up a hand, and his eyes dropped to the floor. He almost looked sorry, though when he met Tim's eyes again, there was still that same wariness from before. Even in the wrong, he couldn't stop it, could he?

"I—" He sighed, pursing his lips and staring behind Tim for a moment before continuing. "I'm sorry. You're right, that was unfair."

Tim snorted, and didn't bother waiting for a better apology. Instead, he removed his belt and held it out to Jon, who looked at it like it was a snake, or perhaps an unpleasantly squirming worm.

"To keep the skirt up, you idiot. Take it."

Jon hesitantly reached out, fingers brushing Tim's as he plucked the belt out of his hands. Eyes fixed on his waistline as he tried to keep the skirt up while getting the belt around it. God, he was a mess. Despite it all, Tim felt some of his anger receding as he stepped closer, and took the belt back.

"You hold it up, I'll put the belt on."

Jon blinked at him in surprise, but nodded guardedly. Up close, Tim could see the gash that had been torn into the waistband, bad enough to keep it from staying up. But the belt should keep it in place. At least mostly. He stepped closer, breath ghosting against Jon's cheek, close enough he could feel Jon shiver as he slipped the belt around his waist, and buckled it as quickly as he could.

The skirt was even shorter now, by necessity bunching up a bit over the top, and barely coming to mid-thigh. But it'd do. And hopefully they wouldn't need it much longer, if Tim's plan worked.

A plan they should get started on. But first—

"I was looking, but not for the reason you think."

Jon frowned at him, but he didn't try to interrupt for once.

"You have a nasty scar there," Tim continued, watching as Jon reached back to touch it, a flash of pain at the reminder crossing his face. "I know what that felt like. I just wish you'd remember that."

With that, he turned back to the buckets of plastic sheeting, and got to work.

* * *

“There’s no way this will work,” Jon said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

As much as Tim wanted to dismiss his doubts, had dismissed them multiple times, privately he had to admit it wasn’t exactly elegant. But sometimes you didn’t need anything fancy. Just a hole to drop a monster into, and some chemicals to throw in after it.

“Look, just stay behind the trapdoor, and don’t run off until it’s about to fall in, okay?” To make absolutely certain Jon knew where he was supposed to be, Tim put his hands on Jon’s bony shoulders and guided him to a spot on the far side of the opening, across from the entrance to the Archives. He gave Jon’s shoulders what he hoped was an encouraging squeeze, though knowing Jon he’d probably decide it was a poor attempt at strangulation. But as long as it kept him where Tim wanted, he didn’t much care.

“Fine,” Jon said, toeing at the edge of the plastic sheeting that covered the opening, the edges of it peeking out from underneath the paper they’d layered on top of it. “I really hope this thing is as stupid as you think. Because nothing with any intelligence would fall for this.”

“It’ll be rushing at us, eager for the kill. And we’ve hurt it. That sort of fear doesn’t tend to lead to clear thinking. Or good management.”

“Hilarious,” Jon said, continuing to poke the edge of the plastic with his foot.

Tim sighed, grabbing his shoulder again and dragging him back towards one of the desks. “Sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” Jon barked, sitting on the edge of the desk in a display of surprising obedience.

“No, if you were, I’d just put you on a leash and tie you to the desk.” Tim gave his dangling tie a tug for emphasis, and ignored Jon’s indigent yelp as he climbed up next to Jon and grabbed a spray bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jon blushing, and fiddling with the now rather short skirt in a ridiculous attempt at modesty. “And no, that wasn’t intended to be flirting.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Jon snapped, picking up his spray bottle. “And I’d like to see you try.” He actually met Tim’s eyes, though he seemed to get even redder in the process.

“Only if you ask nicely.” Tim smiled, and Jon ducked his head, before looking back at the door. And yeah, that was bordering on flirting, but at this point Jon had started it.

“Oh, shut up. We need to focus.” Jon’s hand tightened around the spray bottle, and he scooted a few inches away from Tim, not seeming to realize that it’d dragged the skirt another inch higher. For the best, really. If Jon was too annoyed to play with his skirt, maybe he’d keep his mind on the monster.

Silence fell between them. Tim scanned the room, noting again and again the places he’d set the buckets, eyes sweeping across the papers strewn over the floor, checking for any gaps. Not that any of it would stand up to real scrutiny; Jon was right about that.

But Jon could never leave well enough alone, and apparently had a low tolerance for boredom. He shifted again, tugging on the skirt, reaching into the pocket to pull out the knife and set it across his lap. Not what Tim would have chosen, but Jon really didn’t seem to have the best grasp on how to handle it safely. And if he cut off something important, well, not Tim’s problem, was it?

Of course, Jon couldn’t keep it to fidgeting. After a few dozen seconds more ticked by, he sighed, making Tim tense up for what he knew would be a conversation he really didn’t want to have.

“Where were you, before you came here?”

Tim almost groaned at the lack of subtlety, how the forced casual tone was undercut by the way his hand clenched around the knife. He might’ve laughed, if it weren’t so damn infuriating.

“You just can’t stop it, can you? Not even now, when I saved your life, when we’re so obviously on the same side. You just can’t trust me for a few hours.”

Jon, the absolute idiot, pushed himself back onto the floor, turning to face Tim with his back to the door. At least he hadn’t moved out of position, but it was only a matter of time if Tim didn’t get him seated quietly again.

Maybe he should’ve gotten Jon a nice statement to read or something, like a little kid who was too fidgety on a long train ride. Or maybe he really should’ve tied him to the desk. It couldn’t make Jon more suspicious at this point. And it be the thing to finally make him behave, if he thought his own gruesome murder by Tim’s hands was truly imminent.

“Why won’t you answer the question?” Jon actually did take a step back.

Tim levered himself off the desk, reaching out to grab for Jon as he barely managed to not fall into the tunnels. Noticing just in time to side step towards his office, though that wasn’t much better.

“Because it doesn’t matter what I say, you won’t believe me anyway. You see conspiracies everywhere, and it doesn’t matter what any of us do. I was at a pub, getting drinks because I fucking hate my job, and my paranoid boss, and even if it’s not fun at least it helps me forget.”

He took another step towards Jon, making a grab for him, but not before Jon dodged with surprising dexterity. Tim eyed the trap nervously, moving closer to the desk and trying to keep his shit together. Though it was getting harder, with Jon about to ruin everything. “And I forgot my keys, because I was distracted and yeah, pissed off, when Elias rescheduled the meeting I’d arranged to talk about you.”

“What? Why would you talk about me to Elias?” Jon seemed genuinely hurt, shoulders briefly slumping before he seemed to remember he’d decided Tim was going to murder him, and he took another step back.

“Because you’re a menace! I liked this job, until you—” A thud, and Tim’s head snapped towards the open door, just in time to see a mass of brown and oozing green. “Fuck.”

He turned to Jon, but it was already too late. Jon’s gaze swung towards the plant monster, eyes widening in terror. Not even glancing at Tim before he ran towards his office, skirt fluttering behind him.

“Jon!”

Tim stayed where he was, praying the thing would go for him, ignore Jon and still manage to fall into the trap. But when had he ever been that lucky? All at once, its many twisting vines tensed, the briefest moment of stillness before it flung itself after Jon with surprising speed.

Leaving Tim to stare after them both despairingly, knowing he only had one option left.

He ran after Jon.

* * *

Tim had to give Jon credit: when cornered, he put up a fight.

Not a very good fight, his slash going wild and completely missing its mark, and his squirt of weedkiller managing to land more next to than on the flailing vines. But it was still enough to keep the thing focused on him. And it even seemed to make it wary enough that it took a step—slither—whatever back, leaving Jon alive and mostly intact while Tim crept up behind it. Desperately trying to think of a way to shift its attention to him, and also avoid the almost certain doom Jon was currently facing.

Jon’s eyes flicked to him, mouth opening in shock, only to snap shut when a vine whipped out, thorn dragging across his cheek and leaving a thin scratch in its wake. Lucky, but that might not last.

Fuck it.

“Hey!”

The thing shuddered, but didn’t turn, continuing its advance on Jon, whose back had hit the precariously stacked shelves along the wall. Not his best attention grabber, but he was usually using charm and looks and good humor for that. Monster attention had never really been his area. And while he’d ideally like to keep it that way, right now he needed something better.

He unscrewed the top of the spray bottle, and hoped to hell he didn’t miss as he crossed the remaining distance between them, and threw the contents on it at point blank range.

The scream was all the warning he had before it turned on him. Low and terrible, like the groaning of thousands upon thousands of roots being torn from the earth, the sound reverberating through the floor as it lashed out at Tim. But he’d been ready, and he was already running before it could get in another swipe, eyes on his only chance for victory.

He didn’t stop at the edge of the trapdoor, hoping his luck held and he wouldn’t slip on the plastic as he made the leap. His foot came down hard on the other side, and he grunted in pain as he lurched into a desk, sharp corner jabbing into his abdomen and knocking the wind out of him. But he didn’t have time to recover. He pushed himself painfully to his feet, and turned on the monstrosity on the other side.

It’d stopped. Tim’s heart dropped as its snaking tendrils wandered over the now disturbed papers, exposing the plastic underneath its feet, or trunks, or whatever its handful of leg-like appendages were. Jon had been right; it was smart enough to see through the trap. And not nearly as reckless as Tim had hoped.

But maybe the weedkiller would still be enough. DeadFast, the packaging had promised, and Tim didn’t care if it was banned, if thing didn’t shrivel up into a husk, he was going to haunt the manufacturer.

He ran around the desk, grabbing the bucket of weedkiller on his way, grateful that however horrifying the thing was, at least it didn’t seem all that quick on its feet. But its vines were another matter, curving towards him and striking like a viper.

But Tim was just that little bit faster. He flung the contents of the bucket at it, scrambling back as it recoiled, then sprinting for the other bucket. The low scream was building in intensity, and when he turned back, he saw ugly dark spots forming on its skin. But it wasn’t dead yet.

This bucket was heavier, the noxious liquid sloshing ominously at the sides. But that might be for the best. It was now or never. If this didn’t take it out, or at least subdue it enough to dump it into the tunnels, they were well and truly fucked. He readied it for a final throw, and then froze as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Jon was creeping towards the thing, oblivious to the glare Tim was giving him, the mouthed command to back away. Completely focused on the wailing plant monster as he inched forward, playing with something in his hand.

For a moment, Tim thought it was just the damn knife again. But as Jon’s fingers worked over the object, he realized it was so much worse. A lighter. Jon reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and pulled out a slim cigarette. Then he clicked lighter and held the cigarette to it, waiting for it to ignite.

It caught.

Tim dropped the bucket, sprinting towards Jon. But it was too late, the lit cigarette drifting through the air as Jon tossed it at the plant monster, where it settled in a twisted mass of vines.

Still, Tim kept running, arm making contact with Jon’s waist as the horrible burning chemical smell began to permeate the room. Dragging him behind a desk and shoving him down mere seconds before the thing went up in flames.

Whatever Jon had thought would happen, it clearly wasn’t this, his eyes widening as a shriek erupted through the Archives. Tim covered his ears, a gesture Jon mirrored, though it did little to drown out the sound of their foe’s dying cries. The only mercy as that it was quick, just as promised.

Silence fell again. The only thing left to drift over them was the horrid smell of burned vegetation and weedkiller. And even that seemed to be dissipating surprisingly quickly.

But Jon was already standing, straightening his singed tie absently as he went to inspect the remains of his mess.

“No you fucking don’t.” Before Jon could get far, Tim was on his feet, grabbing Jon’s tie and dragging him closer. He gasped, fingers scrabbling at his neck, yanking it looser as he glared at Tim with fury and terror in his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Jon said.

“Not trying to kill you.” Tim tugged on the tie in a way that probably undermined his point, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “And it’d be a lot easier to manage that, if you didn’t keep trying to do it yourself.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Jon gestured at the pile of ash that was now all that remained of the plant monster. “Unlike your plan, which it saw right through.”

Christ, Tim hated that he was right. But even if he had been right on that one, singular point, it didn’t mean he was right about everything. Didn’t mean that his recklessness, his refusal to trust Tim, hadn’t nearly cost them their lives. His hand tightened on Jon’s tie.

“The only reason you’re not dead is because I got to you in time. If you wanted to set the damn thing on fire, you should’ve told me!”

“I—I hadn’t planned to. It just…” He stared at the remains again, an edge of fear creeping back into his eyes. “I didn’t expect it to be quite so explosive.”

“You did that, and you didn’t even know how sodium chlorate reacted with fire?” He’d thought…damn it. When Jon had gone for the lighter, he’d assumed Jon was being reckless. But if he hadn’t even known it would work like that, it wasn’t just reckless, it was absolutely idiotic. “Without the weedkiller, you know that would’ve done next to nothing, right?”

“I—I guess this is why it’s banned?” His eyes went to the remaining bucket of weedkiller, and he squirmed closer to Tim, as if he thought it would somehow leap out and attack him, maybe burn him to a crisp. Finish the job he couldn’t finish himself. It’d serve him right, maybe serve them both right, if it turned out they’d unleashed some new, toxic horror on the world.

“Part of it, yeah. If you didn’t know, why did you do that?” The skin on the back of Tim’s neck prickled, and as he much as he wanted to shrug off the feeling, he knew he wasn’t just imagining it. There was something weird, not just the plant monster. But the Institute itself, and the Archives more than the rest. Even if he didn’t know what yet. Even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, anymore.

“I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to do.” Jon’s hands slid off his tie, falling to his waist, and he ducked his head. Finally looking properly ashamed, not that it mattered much now. And with no more answers than Tim.

“Great. Just great.”

“Look, I’m sorry I doubted you.” His hands found the skirt, which had a few more black stains than before, spots he was rubbing at nervously. And only making it worse, like always. “I—I have to admit, I’m not sure I would’ve survived without your help. Though your plan _was_ bad.” His head shot up, eyes narrowly slightly as his hands tightened on the fabric of the skirt.

Why was it that, that really got Tim? Jon admitting he was wrong, an almost real apology, that even now he couldn’t help but undercut with criticism. Once, he’d found the whole thing amusing. Just bluster, and hey, he wasn’t that bad once you got to know him. But now, now it was just another out for Jon, another way he wasn’t to blame, not really. Because that was it, wasn’t it? Proof that he couldn’t trust Tim.

He shoved Jon away, lips twisting into a mirthless smile as Jon struggled to regain his footing.

“Sorry? That’s it, you’re just going to apologize like that makes up for anything?”

“What do you want me to do?” Jon said, striding back towards Tim, when he should’ve been running away yet again. Far away, where Tim didn’t have to think about him. Didn’t have to deal with any of his infuriating bullshit.

“Listen, for once in your fucking life.” Tim slammed his hand down onto the desk, making Jon jump, and lean closer still.

“Or what?” he said, eyes flashing. “You’ll tie me to the desk, and make me obey?” He reddened, but remained where he was.

“Why not?” Tim laughed, the sound as mirthless as his smile. “Nothing else seems to work. Maybe a good spanking would help as well. No one else is going to give you any damn discipline.”

Jon’s mouth hung open, as if he couldn’t quite believe Tim had gone that far. Like he’d actually expected Tim to back down, when he’d been the one to start it. His lips thinned, and his hands curled in the fabric of his skirt, before relaxing as he seemed to come to some sort of decision.

“Fine.”

He looked Tim straight in the eye, face flushed but his expression hardening with a strange determination as he turned and bent over the desk, elbows resting on the surface, arse jutting out and barely covered by the short skirt.

“If that’ll make you feel better, be my guest,” he continued. Then he ducked his head, staring down at the wood. But not otherwise moving while Tim just stood there and gaped.

“You’re serious,” Tim finally said.

Jon’s head lifted again, twisting to give Tim a glare with far more bravado than a man in his position should have. “Are you?”

It didn’t take Tim long to decide. He came around to the front of the desk, grabbing the trailing end of Jon’s tie and yanking him forward. Enjoying the huff of annoyance Jon made, struggling to regain his balance as Tim tied the end of it to a desk handle. Then he met Jon’s eyes again.

“Yeah. I am.”

* * *

Tim had always enjoyed improvising. Not with the same reckless abandon as Jon; there was a difference between thinking on the fly and not thinking at all. But assessing the situation, taking in the available information, and deciding on a course of action? There was a certain thrill to it. A challenge he’d always enjoyed.

And Jon was definitely a challenge all his own.

Even with him all but offering himself up, he was still…maybe not resistant, but absolutely uncertain. Some small, dark part of Tim almost wanted to give Jon something to really fear. A reason to mistrust Tim, to hate him. So they could just be done with this. A clean break.

But if that was what Tim really wanted, he wouldn’t be here now. Wouldn’t be circling around the desk, feeling Jon’s eyes follow him, his head twisting even as he strained against the tie. Enjoying the way Jon tensed when Tim trailed his fingers down Jon’s back. And the way he relaxed, when Tim rubbed a soothing circles into the base of his spine.

He’d done that before, hadn’t he? That time when Jon draped himself over Tim, far too drunk after his unexpectedly wild birthday celebrations. Not that Tim had been much better. It’d been impulse, dragging his fingers along Jon’s back, after Jon kissed him. But he’d responded like some sort of large, bony cat, burying his face in Tim’s neck and sighing as he pushed into the touch.

But he wasn’t drunk now, and neither was Jon. And that night seemed like a lifetime ago. He took a deep breath, and his fingers drifted lower, brushing lightly over the folds of the skirt that was doing very little in this position to truly cover Jon’s arse. When he reached the end, he kept going, running his hand gently along Jon’s thigh, moving up below the skirt to skim the curve of his arse, and enjoying the slight tremble he got in response.

Then he grabbed the skirt, and yanked. Jon gasped in surprise as his arse was exposed fully. The belt kept the front in place, not that it much mattered with Jon bent over.

But that wasn’t really the point anyway. No, with the rip in the skirt, there was enough give to make a truly lovely display, as Tim continued to carefully tug the skirt into position, leaving Jon’s arse perfectly framed by the blue fabric.

Tim stepped back to admire his work. Ideally Jon would be a little cleaner, maybe in a tighter shirt. Definitely lose the waistcoat, so he could really see the skin underneath. And the skirt wouldn’t be stained of course, and probably naturally shorter, rather than ripped.

But it was still good enough, to see Jon’s surprisingly shapely arse hanging out like that. Watching the way he couldn’t quite keep still, and how pointless it was to struggle with his tie still attached to the drawer handle, even as he tried to take a peek.

As he mulled over what he wanted to do next, what he could do to surprise Jon, to give him everything he’d asked for and more, he saw Jon shift. Leaving himself braced on only one forearm, his other reaching for the trailing end of the skirt, clearly intent on adjusting it. Or covering his modesty, like he had any of that left.

Tim should’ve expected that, that Jon couldn’t leave well enough alone, that he couldn’t wait and see. His self-control sucked. But Tim could help with that.

His gaze landed on the shredded remnants of Jon’s trousers. He went over to them, picking them up and also grabbing the twine they hadn’t ended up using. Then he went back to the desk, dropping his newly acquired supplies on it.

Jon jumped, head snapping towards Tim with clear guilt in his eyes, warring with growing embarrassment and not a small bit of regret.

“What are you waiting for?” Jon said, his voice low. As if there was anyone around to hear. Though who knew, with how weird this place was, maybe someone was watching right now. If so, Tim hoped they enjoyed the show.

“I’m not waiting. I’m preparing. Bit of a foreign concept, I know.”

“I’m not sure a bad plan is much better.”

Jon kept his eyes locked on Tim, even as he grabbed defiantly at the edge of the skirt, pulling it slightly higher on his arse. Couldn’t manage obedience even after he’d offered it up himself.

But there were ways of dealing with that, and mad as it would’ve seemed just earlier tonight, by now he was almost certain Jon was deliberately provoking him. That it wasn’t just his constant, instinctual contrary nature. That he wanted Tim to react. To stop him. To punish him, and make him do better.

It was a more productive interaction than they’d had in ages. And fuck if it wasn’t hot as hell.

“You agreed to my plan,” Tim said, leaning over and grabbing Jon’s wrist and yanking his arm up behind his back. “And this time, you’re going to follow it.”

Jon’s eyelids actually fluttered, his tongue darting out to lick his parted lips. With his free hand, Tim adjusted his trousers, swallowing hard. Patience. It’d be so much better if he kept it under control, waiting for the perfect moment. When he’d completely taken Jon apart.

“Other arm,” Tim said.

Jon’s eyes widened in confusion. For a moment Tim thought he might argue. But instead he shifted awkwardly, dragging his arm out to leave his chest pressed uncomfortably against the desk. Tim grabbed it, pulling it next to the other one, forearms pressed together. Then he tore the remains of the trousers into long strips and wrapped them gently around Jon’s arms.

“What are you doing?” Jon was trying to look again, but it was harder now, just like Tim had hoped. Without the leverage of his arms, and the awkward angle his position left him in, there was no way he’d get a proper look.

“Is that a serious question? I’m tying you up.”

Tim picked up the twine, reaching into one of the desk drawers and pulling out a scissors to cut a few lengths. Then he went back to Jon’s forearms, and began to tie them together. Careful to keep the twine over the trouser fabric, and not too tight. It wouldn’t keep Jon from escaping, but he wasn’t trying to permanently hold Jon. Just remind him exactly where Tim wanted him.

“Yes, but why the trousers?” Jon pulled at the ties curiously, but didn’t try to twist out of them.

As Tim stepped back again, he could see Jon’s legs shaking slightly, bent at an awkward angle as he struggled to hold himself up. Which was quite the sight, the way the muscles of his arse flexed and the flesh trembled, but probably not something he could keep up indefinitely.

“Because of rope burn.”

Tim scanned the room, eyes falling on a stack of books on his own desk. They might get a bit sweaty, but they weren’t priceless relics. If Elias got his knickers in a twist over it, Tim would just let Jon deal with it. He was sure whatever explanation Jon came up with would be hilariously inadequate, but based on past experience, Elias would probably lap it up. Anything for his precious Archivist.

Resentment coiled unpleasantly in his gut, and even as he was picking up the books, he hesitated. Why make it easier for Jon, when he’d never made it easy for Tim?

But as he walked back over to the desk, he saw Jon’s eyes had fallen shut, and despite the clear strain, he looked almost relaxed. His eyes opened, and when he looked up at Tim, there was none of the suspicion he’d grown so used to these past months. Just honest, open curiosity as his eyes fell on the books.

“Some light reading?” he asked skeptically, and Tim actually laughed.

“I really hope I’m not that boring. It’s to prop you up.” He slipped a hand under Jon’s chest, and he seemed to get the point, straightening his legs with a groan and letting Tim slide the books under him.

While he was there, he also made sure to undo the buttons of the waistcoat. And to take the chance to linger on Jon’s abdomen, enjoying the way his muscles twitched under Tim’s hand.

“This can’t be good for the books,” Jon said, shifting around before sighing and letting his forehead rest against the desk. Leaving his face in shadow, but not so much that Tim couldn’t see how flushed he was, his skin damp with sweat that couldn’t just be from physical exertion.

“Like you care,” Tim retorted as he headed behind Jon to tug the skirt back into place around Jon’s arse. He took a moment to admire Jon’s own clear interest in the proceedings, his cock no longer dangling between his legs but hard and flushed, lifting the front of the skirt and pressing lightly against the desk.

“Do you always take this long to get to the point?” Jon said, sounding increasingly breathless as he adjusted his position yet again.

God, Tim wondered if he drew this out long enough, whether Jon could get off from just the setup. The ritual of it all, obedience and giving in and just letting someone take command. Part of him wanted to find out.

But mostly, he wanted to hear what Jon sounded like once he lost all ability to speak. Wanted to make Jon go incoherent, until he couldn’t suspect anyone. Couldn’t look at Tim with anything but need and longing and yeah, maybe even trust.

“Not always,” Tim said, reaching into the drawer where he’d found the scissors to fish out a blank cassette tape. “You’re just special.”

He turned it in his hands, weighing the possibilities. It wasn’t exactly the most intimidating implement. But it felt right, and fuck if it wouldn’t make Jon squirm, to know one of his precious tapes was being used like this. He could just hear it now, feeble protests about appropriate uses of Institute property. And how they’d die when the next blow came, morphing into a needy moan.

“What if I took your statement?” Tim said, lips curling into a grin. He gripped the edge of the tape as tightly as he could, and drew his fingers over the curve of one arse cheek, pinching it and enjoying the way it made Jon squirm.

“I hardly think now is an appropriate time—”

Before he could get any further, Tim brought the tape down. It couldn’t have hurt that much, but Jon reacted beautifully, hips jerking against the desk, any further complaints cut off by his desperate moan.

Tim adjusted his trousers again, wiping his fingers for good measure to make the tape wouldn’t slip free, before gripping it firmly again.

“I think now is exactly the right time.”

The symbolic impact of the tape was striking, as he littered one cheek with a series of sharp blows. Ones he knew couldn’t have truly hurt that much, but god, was Jon sensitive, grasping and writhing at the merest brush of the tape. Tim smoothed a hand over the reddened lines on Jon’s skin, then turned to the other arse cheek.

“What is that?” Jon said, as he tried to twist around and look over his shoulder. An action that was proving gratifyingly difficult thanks to Tim’s earlier restraint.

“Guess.” Tim drew the corner of the tape just below the scar he’d seen before, teeth working his lip. Wanting to strike, but— “Do you mind if I touch?”

“I—” Jon let out a choked laugh, his body visibly shaking. “Obviously not, or I’d have hardly let this—this assignation proceed.”

“Christ, you really do get even more buttoned up when you’re unbuttoned, don’t you?” He tapped the tape lightly under the scar. “I mean the worm scar. Should I avoid it?”

Jon made an odd, cut off sound. Like he hadn’t expected Tim to ask that, thrown off because he thought Tim would be a complete ass. Which okay, not entirely unfair, given how Jon had acted. And how little tolerance Tim had shown for it.

Tim gave the unmarked cheek a light swat with the tape again, making Jon jump. But he also seemed to relax, his head drooping again to rest on the desk.

“It’s fine. I’d actually prefer if you didn’t. Avoid it, that is.” He coughed, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it himself. But honesty should be rewarded. So with that squared away, Tim rewarded him with another whack of the tape, right over the scar.

“Ah—” Jon’s fingers clenched, pressing into his arms. “You know, I can’t quite feel it? Not in the same way. I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, tracing the scar with the edge of the tape, watching it catch on the puckered skin. “Scars are like that.” He brought the tape down harder, and Jon let out a small moan.

Still, they wouldn’t get anywhere like this. He gave that cheek another few whacks for good measure, tracing his fingers over the resulting coloration and enjoying the way Jon trembled under his hands.

But best to get things moving along. With that in mind, he turned the tape in his hand, dragging the edge down between Jon’s cheeks, and teasing at his hole with one corner.

“Tim—” Jon gasped, and actually pushed back into the tape.

Which okay, had not been Tim’s plan, and still wasn’t, because he didn’t really want to end the night with an awkward visit to A&E, but fuck if the idea wasn’t kind of hot. Maybe for another time, with a bit more allowance for safety measures. An idea that didn’t seem as unlikely as it would’ve earlier that night.

“You have a guess?” Given Jon’s clear enthusiasm, Tim figured there wasn’t any harm in pushing just a tiny bit harder, and was rewarded with Jon gasping again, clenching around the small corner that had dipped inside him.

“For god’s sake. It’s a tape, and we’re going to have to get rid of it now. I really hope it’s blank, because if not, I will expect you to determine what statement was recorded on it.”

Tim snorted, and pulled the tape back to give Jon another swat, before taking a step back to scan the room. His eyes landed on exactly what he’d been hoping to find, just through the door to Jon’s office.

“Tim?” Jon could clearly hear his footsteps, squirming on the desk but unable to do much else as Tim strode into Jon’s office and grabbed his prize. A prize he was quite happy to set next to Jon on the desk, very much wanting him to see this one.

Jon turned his head immediately, giving it a rather befuddled look for a moment before his brows tightened, and he glared up at Tim.

“Are you planning to blackmail me?”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Good thing he still had the tape; he leaned back around Jon, and gave his arse a well deserved smack. When he looked back, he was gratified to see some of the suspicion had been knocked right off Jon’s face, leaving behind parted lips and wide, eager eyes. “No, you idiot. I don’t think either us would come out of that looking golden.”

He depressed the button to open the tape recorder, and held the tape over it, considering. He couldn’t quite explain why he wanted it recorded. Just fragments of conversation, and the typical moans and gasps and slapping of flesh. Nothing special about it, and yeah, maybe a bit compromising. But still, it felt…right.

This place really had done a number on him, hadn’t it? Or maybe he’d always been like this, deep down. Wanting to know, and to keep a bit of that knowledge for himself.

“Don’t,” Jon said suddenly, as Tim moved to place the tape inside.

Tim shrugged. A bit disappointing, but fair enough. If Jon didn’t want to be recorded…

“It’s not sanitary,” Jon continued. “There are some wipes in my desk.”

Now it was Tim’s turn to gape, before breaking into a startled bark of laughter.

“Not your first rodeo with these babies, then?” Tim waved the tape significantly, heading back towards Jon’s office and grinning at his strangled protest.

“That isn’t what they’re for!”

The wipes in question were easy enough to find, and given how constantly dust free and pristine Jon’s desk was, Tim was perfectly willing to believe he used them for perfectly ordinary cleaning. Still, it was funny to watch Jon squirm, his mouth already open for another protest when Tim returned with a freshly wiped off tape, and popped it into the tape recorder.

“I seriously don’t know what you think I do during work hours, but—”

“Relax, boss. I know the only illicit thing you use the tapes for is recording whatever paranoid tangent you’re going off on this week. But this is more fun, don’t you think?”

Maybe there was a bit of a cruel edge to his smile, given the way Jon seemed to immediately quail. But he was getting the impression Jon was kind of into that. A win-win, if he kept pissing Tim off with all the tiny reminders of why he’d started to hate Jon in the first place.

It was easier, when he didn’t still half-like him.

“So about that statement,” Tim said, going back to where he’d found the discarded trousers to retrieve the item he’d noticed earlier. Pretty nice, leather worn smooth and supple with years of heavy use by someone who couldn’t be bothered to buy another. Should have a good snap.

“You’ll have to remind me,” Jon said acerbically, only for his words to turn into a strangled groan when Tim gave him a whack with one hand.

“Guess I will,” Tim agreed, wrapping the excess length of the belt around his hand, tightening his grip and giving it a tentative whip into the empty air.

Jon tensed at the sound, his heavy, fast breathing mingling with the whir of the tape recorder. The snap was harder than he planned on hitting Jon, but it got the point across. And as Tim’s eyes raked over Jon’s body, landing on his cock, the way he couldn’t quite seem to keep still against the desk, it seemed to be a point Jon wasn’t bothered by in the least.

“Would you like to take a picture?” Jon said waspishly, arms straining against his bonds, squirming his arse in a way that only made the sight more appealing. Which might well be the point, though Tim wasn’t sure Jon was quite that calculating. “Or would you like to get on with the proceedings at sometime tonight?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tim let his voice drop lower, and traced the edge of the belt over Jon’s arse, smiling as he shuddered in response. “Maybe later, when you’re even more of a mess.” He took a step back, and before Jon could say anything else, added, “But now, for your statement.”

He stretched his arm, rolling his shoulders as he considered his words.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding a long overdue disciplinary hearing. Statement taken direct from subject, currently leashed to his desk, arse in the air, framed by a fetching blue skirt.” He gave Jon’s arse a squeeze, before sliding down to toy with the edge of the skirt, smiling as Jon pushed into the touch.

“Good lord,” Jon muttered. “Was that really necessary?”

“Was showing up at my house necessary?” Jon’s silence was deafening. “That’s what I thought. And anyway, you like it.” He gave Jon’s arse another tap with the belt.

“What are you waiting for?” Jon said, the challenge in his words clear as he squared his shoulders, and actually thrust out his arse slightly further. “Statement—”

Tim brought the belt down, unable to stop from grinning as Jon let out a filthy moan, hips jerking desperately against the desk.

“Yeah. Now the statement definitely begins.”

* * *

Jon was certainly vocal. And beautifully responsive, body twitching and skin blooming crimson under each hit of the belt. Christ, he wondered what the tape would sound like, another hit dragging a drawn out moan from Jon’s lips. Lips he wished he could see, that he wanted to shove his fingers into, making Jon suck on them, soft and slick and promising so much more.

It was almost enough to get him to stop, just to see if the reality would match his imagination. But no, Jon’s sensitive arse was ready and waiting for more, smooth and hot under Tim’s hand as examined his work. He dug his fingernails into one particularly vivid welt, savoring how Jon groaned and writhed under the touch.

“So, about that statement,” Tim said, a bit more breathless than he’d like as he dug in harder, and tried to ignore the persistent throbbing of his cock. Still trapped in his trousers, but very much into everything before him.

But he’d always loved dragging things out. It made the finale that much better.

“What? You can’t be serious.” Jon’s voice cracked, and his shoulders tightened.

He’d seemed to lose himself, in the heat of the moment, but Tim expected some of his self-consciousness was returning. But that made it more fun, didn’t it? To strip it all away again.

“I’m always serious,” Tim said, punctuating his words with a sharp whack from the belt, drawing another sweet noise from Jon’s lips. “So like I said, disciplinary hearing. List what you’ve done to deserve this.”

“This is absurd.” Jon struggled half-heartedly against his bonds, yelping when Tim struck a bit lower than before, along the underside of his arse. “Fine. I assume you have some ideas?”

Hell if it wasn’t tempting to put it all into his own words, to break down each small betrayal, cracked and sharpened against the hard eyes of a man who couldn’t see anything beyond himself. Except when he could, and that just made it worse. Made the words Tim wanted to spit back at him stick in his throat.

“No, I’d prefer you try to think of them. It’s an important part of improving your performance, wouldn’t you agree?” He trailed his fingers down one cheek, digging in and pinching at the underside of Jon’s arse, still far too unblemished. But he could fix that. Even if he wasn’t sure he could fix anything else.

“I see you’ve been reading Elias’s emails,” Jon said, his tone evener than it’d been before. More superior, and stiff. Yeah, Tim was definitely getting to him. “I suspect they’re plagiarized from some corporate employee development manual.”

Tim snorted, and ran his hand over Jon’s arse once more, giving it a gentle whack before taking a slight step back. His eyes found Jon’s cock, straining and as red as his arse. But that could wait, just like Tim could wait, even though he ached touch his own cock and relieve some of the tension.

“I don’t care where they come from. Only about the results.” He lifted his arm, and brought the belt down, stomach twisting as he noticed Jon relax immediately after it struck. “Get listing.”

Jon nearly dithered long enough to earn another whack, but just as he was readying the blow, Jon blurted out, “Mistreatment of my assistants.” The words sounded like they pained him; Tim wondered if he preferred the physical pain. If it was easier, to be hurt, than to admit the cause of it.

But he wasn’t here to make things easy for Jon. “The devil’s in the details. Be more specific.”

“Following my assistants—”

Tim brought down the belt again, savoring the sharp slap of it, the way the sound mingled with his gasp. How it came together into a long, low groan when Tim whipped the belt against his skin once more, and a third time, leaving Jon panting and deliciously red.

“Fine,” Jon said, when Tim relented. “Stalking my assistants, invading their privacy, and showing a general lack of trust in their actions.”

Tim snorted, and dug the heel of his hand into one arse cheek, enjoying the way Jon pressed into the motion as he massaged the sore flesh, how warm the skin felt under his hand. “I’d have gone with ‘not trying to murder you.’ Still, better. But you’re not done.” He lifted his hand, and gave the spot he’d been touching an almost fond thwack.

“I don’t think disagreements on strategy are quite the same thing,” Jon muttered, any more protests cut off by another flurry of blows from the belt, leaving him breathless.

Christ, he was really becoming quite the mess, wasn’t he?

Tim had been so focused on that lovely arse, he really hadn’t taken the chance to appreciate the full picture. How his waistcoat had been dragged askew, and his shirt clung to his back, hitching up to expose skin Tim couldn’t help but touch. Dragging the belt over it and enjoying how Jon pushed into. How he didn’t shy away.

“You can’t have a disagreement if you don’t actually talk about it. So talk now.” He smoothed a hand down Jon’s back, shoving up his shirt and waistcoat to expose the damp, overheated skin.

The sudden wash of cool air made the skin prickle, and Jon shivered, and shivered again when Tim pressed closer, his groin flush with Jon’s arse, the fabric of his trousers abrading the tender skin.

“Poor communication about alternate plans,” Jon said, as Tim felt him tense under his hand, only to be surprised when he ground his arse against Tim’s cock, “and how the task should be approached.”

“Fuck. You—”

Tim stepped back, trying to collect himself. Torn between anger and appreciation for Jon’s small act of rebellion, his attempt to turn the tables. His cock ached with the need to thrust against Jon’s skin, and even more the need to be inside him, enveloped in that terrible heat he’d awoken between them.

But no. Not yet. He brought the belt down in a harsh reprimand, one strike after another, fast enough he didn’t keep count, didn’t track anything but the way Jon writhed and moaned, and the bright red lines that blossomed more and more deeply across his skin.

“Running into danger isn’t a plan.” He gave another whack for good measure, but it only seemed to embolden Jon, even with his head pressed hard against the desk, and his breathing coming in sharp gasps.

“Your plan was terrible!”

“At least I had one that went beyond setting myself on fire. And we could’ve changed it if you’d had anything real to say about it. So yeah, there’s another. Give it a go.”

He prodded at Jon’s arse as he waited, noting the abrasions in his skin. If he didn’t want to cause more serious damage, he’d have to ease off. And while he had to admit he wasn’t entirely adverse to it, seeing what Jon’s skin looked like when it broke, now was really not the time or the place. Wasn’t the sort of thing for a first…whatever this was. At least not with everything between them.

Jon sucked in a deep breath, his body lifting in one last, small act of defiance, before he relaxed, and said, “Vague and unclear feedback when I disagree with an employee’s chosen direction.”

The words sounded like they pained him. But he’d said them, and that…that counted more than Tim would’ve thought.

“Excellent,” Tim said, giving Jon’s arse a final hit, before setting the belt aside. “Very clear, you’re getting better already.”

“Are we quite done?” Despite his words, there was something about the way he was holding himself, almost seeming to lean into the desk, that made Tim think Jon wanted to go on.

“Not yet.” Tim smoothed his hand over the twisting worm scar, scraping his nails over it, digging in until he was sure Jon could feel it. And he didn’t even have to prompt the next response.

“Failure to take into consideration that I’m not the only one that suffered. That…” He trailed off, oddly subdued. Maybe even contrite.

“That you don’t have to go all lone wolf, and lash out like everyone’s against you,” Tim said.

On impulse, he leaned over and pressed his lips to the scar, letting his tongue map the contours of it. Wondering how much or little Jon could feel, and if that still mattered.

“Yes,” Jon said, voice hitching. Tim kept his lips pressed to the scar, as silence fell between them. “I—I am sorry, Tim.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, taking a step back, and running his hand over Jon’s arse. “I know.”

Almost unconsciously, his fingers found Jon’s hole. Prodding at the edge of it, just like he had with the tape, but with a finesse that had lacked. And as before, Jon pushed against the touch, letting out a small noise when the tip of Tim’s finger slipped inside.

“You can—” Jon coughed, and Tim nearly laughed when he realized that despite everything, Jon was still too embarrassed to say what he wanted. “That is, whatever you want. I—” He cleared his throat. “Please.”

“Whatever I want?”

His gaze drifted back to Jon’s office, memory tickling at the corner of his mind. Whatever had passed between them, they weren’t done here yet. Not by a long shot.

“What happened to that knife?”

“Why do you want to know?” Jon asked, and for once, Tim couldn’t really fault his suspicion. Asking a man the location of weapon when you had him tied to a desk really was worthy of a bit of paranoia.

Totally unwarranted, of course. Or well, not warranted in the way Jon at his more paranoid might think.

“I’m not going to stab you,” Tim said, giving his arse a reassuring pat. One that had to smart, with how red it was. But Jon seemed to take comfort from it, relaxing as Tim let his hand rest there, his thumb rubbing gently along the curve of one cheek.

Jon’s chest rose and fell, breath rushing out in a dramatic sigh. “It’s in my office. I…” He cleared his throat. “I dropped it, in all the excitement.”

Tim snorted, and gave him a swat that might even be fair to call affectionate.

“Of course you did. Well, I better go get it, don’t you think? Can’t leave dangerous weapons lying around.”

With that, he made a beeline for Jon’s office, a grin spreading over his face. How easy was he, that something like this would make him feel downright giddy? Just a bit of spanking, some bondage, and making his asshole boss apologize.

Christ, Jon wasn’t the only one who was a mess.

Tim sagged against the wall of Jon’s office, just inside the door and out of Jon’s sight. Punishing Jon, or stress relief, or working out tension. That was all this was. All it could be. Not Sasha laughing at him, when he said Jon could be kind of sweet, when you pried open the prickly exterior and doused the arrogance in alcohol. Or a kiss in a shadowy booth, too wet and tasting of cheap gin. What would it be like, kissing Jon sober?

“Tim, what are you doing?”

His eyes fell shut, and he took a deep breath. Get the knife. Go to his desk. Stop dwelling on the past.

“I appreciate your diligence,” Jon said, condescendingly enough to make Tim roll his eyes. “But I would prefer if you didn’t leave me like this.”

His voice went high at the end, and even with the sharp edge of his anger receding a bit, Tim found his smile going a bit cruel as he opened his eyes, a feeling he dug into as he pushed away from the wall. It’d serve Jon right, to have people look at him, not being able to do anything about it. Invading his privacy, and leaving him helpless.

But the fantasy of revenge was sweeter than reality, and the thought was already making him feel a bit like shit. No, he wasn’t going to leave Jon there. If only because it wouldn’t be fair to give Martin that kind of heart attack, no matter how much he’d enjoy the moments before his death.

Tim scouted around the desk, and found the knife near the far wall, likely kicked aside in the scuffle. As he picked it up and walked over to the desk to grab the sheath Jon had left there, his eyes fell on Jon’s chair. His really, really nice chair.

He remembered when it’d been brought in, a sleek brown leather monstrosity, far wider than a man as skinny as Jon needed, and more expensive than he’d have thought Head Archivist merited. From the look on Jon’s face when he’d seen it, Tim was pretty sure he agreed, though of course he’d acted like it was only his due, bristling when Martin had asked if was some sort of mistake.

When Tim had finally asked himself, Jon snapped that Gertrude’s old chair was too small. Tim suspected it had more to do with the bad associations—what with his predecessor presumably dying in that very chair—than any actual need. So he guessed in that way, maybe the excess was justified. A little ‘hope you don’t get murdered’ present from Elias.

A present Tim might have some use for. But first, to return the knife to Jon.

Jon’s eyes followed Tim as he left the office, though he remained suspiciously silent, tracking Tim’s progress until he was out of sight again. Bending down to rummage through his own desk, he retrieved a bottle of lube. Something Jon would absolutely not approve of, but Tim found it was always best to be prepared. And he suspected Jon would appreciate that prep right now.

“Please tell me what you’re doing with that knife, Tim,” Jon said, sounding half-resigned, half-pleading. “And that it’s not what I think.”

“You know, I have to give it to you. When you actually cut it out with the bullshit, you can be pretty sharp.”

Jon groaned, and Tim found himself grinning again as he opened the bottle of lube, smearing a glob over the handle of the knife. It was a fairly slim thing, a perfectly adequate substitute for a couple fingers. Nothing Jon couldn’t take. And a good test, for what Tim hoped would soon replace it.

Despite doing nothing to hide his movements, Jon started when Tim gave his arse a light slap. Still red, and it might bruise, but Jon didn’t seem to be in serious pain, given the sound he made was more moan than whimper.

God, someday Tim would love to find out how much he could truly take. No wonder he’d managed to drag himself back to work so soon after the worms.

But for now, he had the knife. He teased Jon’s hole with the curved end of the handle, and got a lovely shudder in response, one that turned into a breathy moan as he let the briefest bit of the end slip inside.

“Seriously, Tim?” The derision was undercut by a desperate whine when Tim pushed in a little further, angling it sharply against the sensitive flesh and teasing his rim open.

“With how carelessly you were carrying about the knife all night, I thought I could teach you a bit about safety. Find it a proper sheath.” He shoved it in a little further, and felt his own cock jump as Jon pushed back onto it, already so eager to have something inside him.

If he’d known Jon was like this, he might’ve tried harder to seduce him properly when he’d still liked him more. Though he supposed neither of them would’ve been ready for that, then. And anger did add a flavor all its own.

“I have to say, I think I’ve found the perfect place for it,” Tim continued. Deeper and deeper, the knife now inches in as Jon clenched around it, and moaned with each flex of his muscles.

Tim leaned down, pressing his lips against the curve of Jon’s arse, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin as Jon gasped, and pushed back harder.

“Is this your idea of—” Jon moaned as Tim cut him off with a twist of the knife, standing to grab his hip. The handle dragged over Jon’s flesh in a way he pretty clearly enjoyed, given the eager jerking of his cock. It’d softened while Tim had been messing around in his office, but apparently a knife up his arse was all Jon needed to spring back to attention.

“Can’t say dirty talk?” Tim asked, realizing he’d gone a bit breathless again, eyes fastened on Jon’s hole, the obscene way the rim stretched around the knife handle, tugged open further each time Jon shuddered around it.

“Don’t be absurd. You’re just—ah.”

Tim thrust the handle in as deep as it would go, the covered blade brushing Jon’s arse. Jon’s head thudded against the desk. When Tim glanced up, he saw Jon’s fingers were digging into his arms.

His hand relaxed around the blade, and he took a step back, just looking over the wonderful scene he’d created. Almost ridiculous, if it wasn’t so damn hot. Jon arched over the desk, hair a mess, shirt rucked up, unable to move with his tie still attached to the drawer, and his hands bound up behind his back. And the wonderful, ruined shirt, fluttering enticingly around a gorgeous, reddened arse. One that still had a knife stuck in it handle down, just waiting for Tim to pull it out.

He palmed his cock through his trousers, letting out a moan of his own as he forced his hand back to his side, and walked back to Jon. Wrapping his hand around the blade, and grinning as he gave it a little tug, and Jon clenched around it.

“If I pull it out, you think they’ll make me king?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—”

Anything else Jon might’ve said turned incoherent as Tim yanked the knife from his arse. He tossed it aside, and grabbed the lube, slicking his fingers up before sliding them into its place. Drinking in the sound Jon made when Tim found his prostate and rubbed it indulgently, before slathering his fingers with even more lube and going in for a second time. It was probably excessive, but fuck if he didn’t love the idea of Jon ready and dripping for him.

His teeth dug into his lip as he considered his slick fingers, before wiping them on the edge of the skirt. It was ruined anyway. Then he shoved the bottle into his pocket, and reached for the top part of the skirt he’d pulled down earlier, tugging it back up under the belt. Giving Jon a scrap of modesty, one that only made the whole thing that much more obscene. Particularly when Tim smoothed the skirt over his arse, and a small damp spot formed where the lube was dripping from his hole.

He went around to the front of the desk, untying Jon and helping him to his feet. Jon winced with a less pleasurable kind of pain, shrugging his shoulders to loosen sore muscles. But there was no resistance in his eyes when he looked back up at Tim.

“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding more curious than wary.

“Keeping you on your toes,” Tim said with a grin, grabbing Jon’s tie and walking towards his office, letting Jon stumble along behind him.

“I’m still not a dog,” Jon muttered as they crossed the threshold, and Tim’s eyes fell again on that wonderful chair.

“No, you’re not a good boy,” Tim agreed, dragging Jon those last few steps, and sitting down with a groan. “But we can get there with some training.”

Tim ignored Jon’s strangled protest, and pulled him into his lap. It’d probably be easier if he untied Jon’s hands, but if Tim wanted easy, he wouldn’t be fucking Jon.

“Watch it!” Tim said, as Jon almost kneed him in the balls. Pulling Jon into his lap was definitely one of those things that worked better in his head, and not just because Jon seemed to be struggling with the goal he’d had in mind. A problem that was admittedly not helped by Tim’s own struggles to adjust the overly complicated chair.

“What are you doing?” Jon’s knee dug into Tim’s thigh, which he supposed was an improvement. He leaned over to get a better look at Tim fiddling with one arm of the chair. “Just push the button.”

Tim did, and the arm sprung up, leaving a bit more space. Wide enough to make this work, particularly once he’d dealt with the other arm. Though Jon still wasn’t doing much to help, shifting awkwardly on Tim’s lap until Tim grabbed one of his thighs in each hand, and guided his legs apart.

“Oh,” Jon said. His legs slid into place, still kneeling but now with Tim’s own legs between his. “I see.”

His gaze slid down to Tim’s groin, where his cock was very obviously outlined in his trousers, before flicking back up to Tim’s face. And well, given Tim hadn’t untied Jon, he couldn’t really blame him for not taking care of that.

Tim scooted closer to the desk, fumbling under the chair to find the lever he was pretty sure locked the wheels in place, and then the other that—much to his relief—reclined the chair a bit, sliding Jon into an even better position. One he clearly noted, from the flush on his face, and the way his own cock jumped underneath the skirt.

And what a pretty picture he was. God, that skirt was a revelation, the way the fabric draped over Jon’s cock, with a damp spot growing there to match the one in back. How could Tim resist that?

He left his own cock alone for just a minute longer, and instead placed one hand on the small of Jon’s back to hold him in place, right below his bound hands. With his other hand, he grabbed Jon’s cock, laughing softly at the noise Jon made. Then he tugged at the fabric until it draped nicely over the head. Secure enough to stay in place, as Tim took Jon’s cock into his mouth.

Jon bucked into the sudden heat, and Tim could hardly blame him. He was getting pretty desperate himself, dragging things out this long, but damn, it was worth it. The way the soft cotton was growing soaked under his tongue, the hot, hard head under it, pushing just past his lips. Only a tease, but from the noises Jon made, it would’ve been enough. Tim slid it in another inch, hollowing his cheeks and running his thumb along the covered length and moaning around it.

And then he sat back, and laughed at Jon’s look of indignation.

“You can’t just—” He bit his own lip and ducked his head, sweat damp hair falling across his brow.

Tim laughed again, already freeing his own cock and shifting around until he was able to retrieve the lube from his pocket. He quickly slathered his cock with it, before setting it aside on top of a rather convenient stack of boxes. Then he put his hands on Jon’s hips, guiding him forward. Jon’s head lifted again, lips parting and his tongue darting out to wet them.

“Any questions?” Tim adjusted his grip so he could run a finger over Jon’s arse to tease his hole, and confirm he was lined up perfectly. “I’ll wait.”

Jon pursed his lips, and lowered himself onto Tim’s cock. Fuck, he could be a smartass when he had something to prove. And for once, Tim was all too happy for him to prove it.

From the way Jon’s teeth clenched and his breath stuttered as he stopped a few inches onto Tim’s cock, once again ambition had exceeded ability. But in this case, a little bit of coaxing and instruction should be enough to help.

Tim gripped Jon’s arse cheeks, helping him hold himself up. While it wasn’t quite the plan, he couldn’t help but give them a squeeze, making Jon tense up and gasp. His eyes met Tim’s, wide and pleading. Poor bastard couldn’t make himself ask, couldn’t say what he needed. Good thing he had Tim.

“Relax,” Tim said, stroking a thumb along Jon’s skin in a way he hoped came across as soothing. “You’re fine, just don’t tense up so much.”

“It’s not—” Jon’s eyes fluttered shut, and he swallowed hard, head tipping in a back in a way that should not be as enticing as it was.

A line of sweat snaked down his throat, wetting the collar of his shirt. All but the top button still fastened tight, his waistcoat hanging open around it. A beautiful picture of way too buttoned up and completely undone, making Tim’s cock throb, desperately wanting to push deep into Jon.

But he wanted Jon undone, not completely fucked up. Not more than the both of them already were.

“Shh,” Tim said. “Trust me, it’ll feel good.”

Jon’s eyes opened again, and the look he gave Tim was vulnerable enough to make his stomach squirm. What had they done, to end up like this? How could he face tomorrow, when things inevitably fell apart again?

He look a deep breath of his own, and managed a smile. Tomorrow was tomorrow, and for now…

Jon relaxed under his hands, tensing again only briefly as he more carefully slid down onto Tim’s cock. Further than Tim would’ve thought he could take, but Jon never did things by halves, did he? It was only not at all, or throwing himself in with far too much intensity, hot enough to burn.

Right now, Tim wanted to burn. To let those eyes light upon him, far too bright and holding things he couldn’t quite name. Boring into him as Jon lifted himself up again, dragging a moan from Tim’s lips as he was again enfolded in the heat of Jon’s body.

It wasn’t fast, and there wasn’t much rhythm to it. Jon clearly didn’t have much experience, but that almost made it better, to see the way he applied himself to the task. Teeth digging into his own lip, panting as he slowly fucked himself open on Tim’s cock.

Tim wished he could drag this out, roll his hips slowly into Jon. Letting them come together and apart, listening to the creak of Jon’s overburdened chair mingling with their own moans and gasps.

But it’d been far too long watching Jon, taking him to pieces without any relief. And now he had Jon’s body around him, tight and hot and just slick enough. He knew he wasn’t going to last.

“Bet you’re not going to be able to sit here anymore, without remembering this. My cock in you, like you belong on it.” His cock throbbed as he said it. Caught up in the image of Jon shifting uncomfortably throughout the day, feeling that echo of Tim’s inside him, each creak of the chair a reminder of what had happened.

Jon tensed around him, and fuck, that wasn’t going to make him last any longer. But it was worth it for the horrified realization now crossing his face, that Tim was right. That he wouldn’t be able to forget this. A realization that wasn’t enough to stop him, even as his movements stuttered, and Tim’s hands tightened on his arse.

“Believe it or not, I have far more important things on my mind than that,” Jon said. The words turned into a breathy moan as Tim rolled his hips, taking over control and thrusting deep into Jon.

“Oh yeah, fucking up a job you weren’t qualified for in the first place.” Tim could feel his balls tightening, too close but not quite there yet, the flare of anger only making the heat building in his cock that much better. “But at least you’re good for this.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but the only sound that came out was a moan as Tim rolled his hips again, bringing Jon to meet him with each thrust. But it’d always been hard to shut Jon up.

“I do the best I can.” As if to prove his point, he brought his hips down to meet Tim, taking him deep enough to leave Tim on the brink. Jon pitched forward as Tim bucked into him, burying his face against the crook of Tim’s neck, breath hot on his skin.

Close as they were, Tim could feel the brush of Jon’s cock against his torso. Would this be enough for Jon to come? Just from being fucked by Tim?

The mere idea of it was enough to make his own cock spark with heat, his movements growing erratic as he continued to thrust shallowly into Jon. Teeth dug into his neck, far too sharp but somehow exactly what he needed to finally tip over the edge. His lips in Jon’s hair as he murmured what sounded far more like a plea than a command.

“Do better.”

He remained like that, cock softening in Jon. Waiting for the snappy retort, the denial. But as he gripped Jon’s hips, and finally slid him off his cock, all he saw was guilt in Jon’s eyes. Mingled with a still burning desire, as Tim brushed Jon’s erection under the skirt.

“Make me.”

Tim couldn’t help it; he laughed. Letting Jon settle back in his lap as he pulled him closer, and in a fit of emotion, pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re really good at guilt, you know?” He brushed a lock of hair off Jon’s face, tracing a finger along a cheek damp with sweat. And likely a few tears, though he expected Jon would strenuously deny it. Stupid, given the context. But it’d be a very Jon sort of stupid.

“What’s the supposed to mean?” Jon frowned, and squirmed a bit, though he didn’t pull away from the hand now cradling his cheek.

_That it’s always been too hard to hate you._

“It means you’ll look gorgeous arse up over my knees.”

Jon’s eyes widened, but he didn’t protest as Tim gently pushed him back onto his feet and guided him to the side. Though he seemed far more dubious as laid his body over Tim’s, leaving his head dangling over the edge, hair sticking up in even more dreadful spikes.

“Now this, I want a picture of.” Tim reached down to ruffle Jon’s hair, then fumbled for the stack of boxes he’d set the lube on, dragging them closer. He put an arm under Jon’s chest to help him up, and spun the chair to allow his head and upper chest to rest on the boxes. “Your head’s big enough already, I don’t think you need anything else filling it up. Also, passed out really doesn’t do it for me.”

“Is that why—”

Jon tensed, and Tim ran gentle fingers through his hair. Wondering if he might be asking…but no. Jon had been the one who hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

Whatever it was, Jon seemed inclined to drop it. He turned his head to the side, allowing Tim to see his face, and an exaggerated eye roll. “I’m so grateful for your consideration.”

“I am here to assist you, after all.” Tim winked at him, just to make Jon roll his eyes again. “Now, where were we?”

He smoothed a hand over Jon’s back, adjusting the skirt so it fully covered Jon’s arse, taking particular care around the crease between his cheeks. Pushing the fabric down, Tim toyed with Jon’s hole, enjoying the way the fabric absorbed his come, and how Jon couldn’t help but squirm into the touch. His hard cock very insistently pressing against Tim’s thigh.

When Jon shifted again, Tim hissed as Jon brushed his own rather sensitive cock. He carefully moved Jon a bit further down his legs, grateful that Jon was fairly slim. Somehow, he didn’t expect Jon would keep his grinding all that restrained when he got started, and Tim really wasn’t up for a second round.

One final adjustment—tugging at the skirt until it was also between Jon’s cock and Tim’s trousers—and he turned back to look at Jon. Who had clearly been following his movements avidly, mouth slightly open, lips gorgeously damp. Enough to make Tim lick his own in response.

He raised his eyebrows at Jon when his gaze found Tim again, and for a moment, Tim thought he was going to have to spell it out. But then Jon’s eyes widened, and he coughed awkwardly.

“You were going to…” He cleared his throat, and pressed his cheek more firmly into the cardboard box. But he didn’t look away, instead bringing his eyes back to Tim, face hardening with renewed determination. “You were going to make me.”

“Make you what?” Tim said, keeping his eyes on Jon while one hand wandered over Jon’s arse, massaging it and pinching through the thin fabric, drinking in the way Jon shuddered and gasped.

“Make me do better.” He licked his lips, then narrowed his eyes, grinding against Tim’s leg. Cheeky bastard. “If you really can. I’m not sure I’ve seen sufficient evidence of that.”

His eyes darted away, and he shifted again, shoulders tightening in clear embarrassment. But for a man who Tim had once heard read a filthy statement and describe the contents as ‘containing instances of erotic suggestion,’ he was doing pretty damn well. And there was definitely an appeal to the stuffy librarian thing.

“That’s right,” Tim said, grinning at Jon as he turned his attention back to that lovely arse. “Seems like you didn’t learn your lesson earlier, so I think we’re going to have to try again. Pity I left the tape recorder in there, but I guess this one will have to be off the record.”

Jon groaned. “I’d forgotten about that. We really need to destroy it.”

Tim gave Jon the most wicked look he could muster, before lightly slapping his arse. “Let’s see how good you are. Then maybe we can negotiate. Or maybe we can listen to it together.”

Before Jon could get any more distracted, Tim brought his hand down on Jon’s arse. And did it again, and again, though almost absentmindedly, as he found own thoughts wandering back to that tape.

What would it be like, to listen to it? The confession he’d dragged from Jon’s lips, the moans and the slap of belt on flesh. Probably hot as hell, or so embarrassing he’d join Jon in wanting to toss it into an incinerator. Though embarrassing might be worth it, if he could watch Jon listen, and enjoy how much it’d make him squirm.

“Is that really all you’ve got?”

Jon’s words cut through Tim’s thoughts, and he was abruptly brought back to the current moment. With a rather irritated looking Jon on his lap, lifting his arse to meet the blow as Tim’s hand came down a bit harder. But even then, when he looked back at Jon, he found only challenge.

“More,” Jon said. “Unless you can’t manage that.”

Tim realized he’d stopped with his hand hovering the air, mouth hanging slightly open. Then he laughed, and pulled back the skirt covering Jon’s arse. He hadn’t want to hurt Jon too much after the belting from before, but if he wanted it…

“All you had to do is ask,” Tim said, leaning over to press a kiss to one of those lovely red cheeks. Letting his fingers graze along them, to toy with Jon’s hole and slide through the come leaking out, pushing it back in as Jon moaned. Then he sat back, meeting Jon’s eyes as he brought his hand down once more.

The smack of skin on skin filled the room, and Jon let out a cry, jerking hard against Tim’s leg and pushing his face into the cardboard. For a second, Tim thought it might’ve been too much. That Jon had been wrong about what he could take. But when he turned his face back to Tim, his eyes were wild with need.

“Barely sufficient,” Jon said, diction perfect despite how breathless he was. “Honestly, I think Martin could do—”

Tim brought his hand down again before Jon could finish, his cock twitching with interest, though it was far too soon. Jon rubbed against his thigh, mouth wide as he let out a wordless groan.

“You might be right.” Tim gave one cheek a whack, then the other, before pinching him hard, and making Jon jerk against him. “He has pretty big hands.”

Tim cupped one arse cheek, and laid a series of short, sharp smacks on the area of skin braced between his fingers, leaving a particularly bright red spot outlined there as he pulled both hands back. “If you’re really good, I might even do you a favor, and bring it up with him.”

He hit the neglected cheek, hard enough to make Jon gasp, but not enough to stop Jon from speaking. Even while he continued to grind against Tim’s leg, almost certainly streaking his trousers with precome, given the scant protection of the dangling edge of his skirt.

“Tim, no, I wasn’t serious.” He twisted towards Tim, trying to bring his face closer, as if that would help get the point across. “That would be deeply inappropriate, and ah—” Another moan, as Tim hit his arse sharply again.

“Relax, you idiot.” The angle wasn’t ideal, but Tim still managed to get a good grip on his arse with both hands, letting Jon use that as leverage to rut desperately against his leg, his breath coming in short pants. “I wasn’t either. Well, mostly not.”

He had to admit, there was a certain appeal in the idea of watching Martin lay into Jon. To step defending him for once, and give Jon what he really needed.

God, Jon wasn’t going to be the only one struggling to work on Monday.

“What do you mean, mostly?” Jon said, though his voice was muffled now, face pressed into the surface of the box as his hips moved in short, erratic bursts. Clearly damn close, and only getting closer when Tim slid his fingers back along the crease of Jon’s arse and toyed with his rim, slipping inside until he found a spot that made Jon jump.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” Tim said, letting go with his other hand to give Jon’s arse another smack. “Or at least not the one you sometimes use to think.”

“That’s terrible,” Jon said, though he didn’t seem to mind that much as Tim kept up that insistent massage inside him, pushing onto his fingers and moaning when Tim brought his free hand down again. “You’re terrible.”

Tim laughed, and let his hand drift up Jon’s back, slipping under his shirt to pick his way slowly Jon’s spine. Taking one last look over it all, the way the skirt was flung across Tim’s thighs, sweat now fully soaking the shirt and waistcoat that had to be far too warm. The small movements Jon made as Tim continued to finger him, and the breathy little moans that issued from his lips when Tim rubbed his prostate harder.

“That makes two of us, boss.”

He brought his free hand down in a quick flurry. Not paying attention to count, not bothering to hit any particular spot. Just giving Jon exactly what they both wanted, as Jon clenched around him, and jerked against his leg one final time, before shuddering and coming hard, spurting onto his thigh.

It didn’t take long for Jon to go limp, though he still clenched weakly around Tim’s fingers while Tim continued to rub him through the aftershocks, tracing the marks he’d made with his other hand. When even that had stopped, Tim slid his fingers out, and rubbed them on the cleanest bit of Jon’s skirt he could find.

Then he reached for Jon’s arms, untying him and helping him stretch them out. Letting Jon hold onto him as he turned himself over, and wrapping an arm around his back as he sat up to face Tim. Still in his lap, both of them silent.

And yeah, fuck it. Scared. How stupid was that? Terrified of the awkward aftermath of some kinky office sex when they’d almost been killed by a plant monster. When they’d almost been killed by a worm woman before that. When Tim couldn’t stand Jon, couldn’t stand the way he didn’t quite manage to look away as Jon licked his lips, and his eyes flicked up to meet Tim’s.

“What now?”

Tim didn’t answer, instead tugging at Jon’s utter wreck of a skirt with one hand, while his other found Jon’s hair, fingers sliding into it. The skirt hadn’t been much coverage in the first place, but it was still enough to mostly count as clothing, even if it was stained and damp at this point. Though the way Jon was sitting, the skirt twisted and caught under his legs, wasn’t helping Tim pull it back into place.

A hand covered his, and he looked up to meet see Jon regarding him with an oddly solemn expression.

“There’s no way to fix it,” Jon said, his thumb stroking along the back of Tim’s hand.

“Maybe not,” Tim said, taking Jon’s hand in his. God, this was a mistake. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “But we could get you a new skirt. A fresh start.” The smile he managed must’ve been convincing enough, because Jon let out a startled laugh.

“And what would I do with that?”

“Keep trying,” Tim said, the smile falling from his face as he leaned closer to Jon, his fingers tightening in Jon’s hair. “You can’t make any more of a mess than you already have. Only way to go is up.” He slipped his hand out of Jon’s and pressed it against his thigh, sliding underneath the fabric.

Jon sighed, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t tell Tim to shove off. His hand found Tim’s again, through the fabric of the skirt.

“Right. I…could do that. If you think it’s worth it.” He squeezed Tim’s hand, and silence fell between them. Leaving nothing up the warmth of Jon’s body, the ache of tired muscles, and the eyes Tim couldn’t manage to look away from.

“Why did you…” Jon trailed off, but he didn’t try to look away. Just kept searching Tim’s face, for answers to the question he couldn’t voice. “On my birthday, when I, well, behaved a bit…” He laughed softly. “Quite a bit less forward than I was now, I suppose.”

“Why did I kiss you back, right after I told you that you weren’t even half as qualified as Sasha?” He laughed ruefully. “I was drunk. Maybe I felt bad. Your birthday, after all. And sure, it was probably true. But not your fault Elias picked you, is it?”

“Pity, then.” Jon sounded almost disappointed, head drooping slightly. And fuck, that wasn’t what Tim had wanted.

“Or maybe I admired your audacity. Even drunk, not many people would go for a kiss after getting told that. In hindsight, this all ends up looking like a bit of an escalation, doesn’t it?” His fingers slipped to the base of Jon’s neck, rubbing circles into the bone while Jon gave him a tentative smile.

“I suppose it does. Though it’s still, well…”

“Inappropriate? Yeah.” Tim gave Jon a quick peck. “But as dramatic as ‘let us never speak of this again’ was, you were my boss. It was the right thing to do, more or less. Whatever I might’ve thought of you.”

“And now? Even not quite living up to the task, I am still your boss.”

How was he supposed to answer that, when he barely knew himself? What he wanted from Jon, what Jon wanted from him. Whether this fragile peace had any chance of lasting past tonight.

He’d probably end up more fucked up than he already was. But maybe there was a bit of optimism left, under all the scars.

“Everything’s gone to shit. Maybe I just want to spend some time with one of the only people who really understands that. And maybe I don’t want him to be part of that shit.” His fingers moved lower, dipping below Jon’s collar to find another worm scar.

Jon’s eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, they seemed clearer. Like he finally really saw Tim.

“Right.”

Of all the stupid things Tim had done the night, this might just be the stupidest. But as he pulled Jon’s head towards him, and brought their lips together, it almost seemed like it might be worth it. Because just like that night in the pub, Jon was kissing back. And it was awkward as hell, more intensity than skill, but still warm and familiar. And maybe a bit more than that.

“My place or yours?” Tim murmured against Jon’s lips. “We should probably go together. Wouldn’t want to let your beautiful arse fall prey to any monsters, after all.”

Jon sighed. But he also kissed Tim again. And ran a finger along Tim’s cheek, trailing down his neck until he found the ragged edge of a scar.

“Mine.”

Then he got to his feet, taking Tim’s hand to pull him towards the door, before coming to a sudden halt and groaning as he looked over the disaster that was now the Archives.

“What are we going to tell Elias?” Jon said, looking despairingly at Tim.

Looking to Tim. Like…fuck.

“You’re the boss,” Tim said. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

And for the first time in a long time, he almost meant it.


End file.
